


James Potter Won't Go Quietly

by la_plus_heureuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Celebrity profile, F/M, Falling In Love, Journalist! Lily, Quidditch Star! James, jily, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_plus_heureuse/pseuds/la_plus_heureuse
Summary: Lily Evans remembers plenty about James Potter from Hogwarts. But an assignment from Mojo Magazine to profile the Quidditch star turned activist makes her realize what she remembered was all wrong. Jily, Wolfstar. Oneshot. Complete.





	James Potter Won't Go Quietly

_ “Lily!” Remus was waving enthusiastically as the flyers dismount and the crowd begins dispatching. Lily wove her way through the crowd, making her way towards Remus. She had not known him well at Hogwarts- being in different houses and years will lead to some unfamiliarity, but they’ve always been fond of each other.  _

_ “What did you think about the exhibition?” Remus asked. He was wearing a sly grin, the sort he used to wear at Hogwarts when he asked a question that he already knew an answer to. Lily rolled her eyes at him. _

_ “Yes, it was thrilling. And I see that you scheduled a chat with James for me. How many other journalists will be at this interview?” _

_ “He really does fly more daring than anyone else, don’t you think?” Remus said, avoiding the question. He turned and began heading down the stadium steps, finding a staircase that descended into the team clubhouse. The atmosphere was quieter here, filled with boyfriends and wives of the players, scattered with the occasional press pass or agent. Most of the agents looked far more polished than Remus, and Lily wondered if James was underpaying him. She scarcely had the opportunity to get upset for Remus’ sake when James Potter walks through the door and makes a beeline for Remus. _

_ “Moons,” he greets him, his voice exuberant. He turns to Lily then and cocks his head. His famous hazel eyes are bright with curiosity, and his famous tousled hair is falling in his eyes.  _

_ “James, this is Lily Evans. She’s been sent from  _ Mojo _ magazine to write that profile of you.” _

_ A lazy smile creeps across James’ face. “Pleasure to meet you, Evans.” Lily swallowed hard.  _

****  
  


**James Potter Won't Go Quietly**

By Lilly Evans

James Potter is offering to make me dinner.

There’s an established rhythm to writing profiles. There’s the setup, done through a publicist, and a strict itinerary of what we will be doing. I was sent over a thick piece of parchment the week before I was due to meet James Potter. We had two blocks of time, three hours each, over the week. The first segment included a Quidditch exhibition so that I could report that yes, it really is that thrilling and that exciting to watch James Potter fly faster and more recklessly than everyone else on the field. The second segment was to be a brisk, proper walk through Saint Regent’s Park in muggle London, complete with a stop for tea so that we might have a faux-frank talk.

There was nothing about dinner on either day. There was nothing on the schedule even approaching dinner time. And yet James Potter is offering to make me dinner, because he has spent the last several hours making me laugh and he heard my stomach rumble. 

“Why don’t we pop over to my flat? I can whip us up something,” is exactly how he phrased it. 

I hesitated. It’s journalistic gold to be in invited into his own space, but it feels like some boundaries are being crossed. It shouldn’t matter. We’ve just spent the last three days together, James enthusiastically inviting me to practices, to strategy sessions, to, yes, brisk, proper walks through Saint Regent’s park, where he spent the time questioning me about every muggle device he saw with increasing interest. He’s done all this over the objections of his publicist, a small and anxious man James insists was his dormmate in Hogwarts. I’m reassured by other people that it is true- James’ entourage entirely made up of the class of 1977’s male members of Gryffindor. They all have nicknames that fly easily- his publicist is Peter, but is called “Wormy” for reasons that no one can properly explain. His agent Remus is grizzled and gaunt looking, but unfailingly kind and answers to “Moony”. His assistant/wingman/obscurial disguised as a human is Sirius Black, James’ very best friend who also answers to “Pads”. Sirius is almost as famous as James, although no one I ask can quite explain why without using the words “rich” and “disowned” and “bad boy”. 

I agree to dinner, and James apparates me away to his flat. It’s an Unplottable three bedroom flat that he shares with Sirius, and the third bedroom is filled with a set of bunk beds. 

“That’s for Worms when he stays over,” he explains when I asked why a rich, famous, and single Quidditch player would have bunk beds in his rented flat. “And Moons,” he adds, as an afterthought. That’s one thing about James, everyone has nicknames. Even nicknames have nicknames. Two hours into our first session I’ve been christened “Lils”, a graduation from the “Evans” he initially called me.

“How often do they stay over?” There are clothes on the floor. One bunk is pristine, with hospital corners, one is a tangle of sheets.

“Moons has been here for the past few months. Worms just bounces in and out every few weeks.”

I laugh, thinking it’s another one of his jokes. He looks at me with curiosity. I belatedly realize that it’s not a joke. He really is that generous with his friends to make sure there’s a spare room for them, and to think nothing of letting them stay for months at a time. 

Our tour continues. It’s a nice flat, certainly nicer than mine, but there’s nothing here that’s extravagant. The pictures on the wall are his parents and friends- his entourage and expected celebrities like The Weird Sisters and Gwenog Jones, who he has been romantically linked to, but also Muggle-Rights activist Mary Cattermole, hero Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, and leader of the leftist Magic for All opposition party Marlene McKinnon. I comment that it’s a controversial group of friends for any Quidditch star, let alone him.

James fixes me with a piercing stare. “What’s the point of having fame if I don’t do something with it?”

*

_ “Do you think you need to have fame to do something good?” Lily asked James.  _

_ Wrinkles appear on James’ brow. “No. Absolutely not. Gods, do I come off like the type of person who would think that?” _

_ “It just seems like you expected to be known. Even in Hogwarts I knew who you were, and I was two years ahead of you. I doubt you knew who I was.” _

_ “You were a Ravenclaw,” James said immediately. “You hung out with Severus Snape until your fifth year when he started to drift towards Death Eaters. You were great at charms and astronomy, and Slughorn loved you. You played Quidditch for a year as a beater, but gave it up when you became a prefect. We played against each other once. You weren’t bad. Half the boys in school were in love with you. Half of them were terrified of you.” _

_ “Still,” Lily said, surprised that James knew as much about her as he did, “you always seemed to expect that people knew who you were.” _

_ “They always did,” James said. He was gazing hard at a corner that was alone except for a muggle poster for Star Wars. “I decided early on that I’d rather give them a reason to know me than just being born.” _

*

James Potter was born as the beloved only son of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. He was born into, if not a uniquely powerful family, then a particularly notable pureblood one. The Potter family has lived for generations in Godric’s Hollow and has had rumors floating around for nearly as long that they are descendants of Gryffindor himself. Fleamont is well-known for taking the family fortunes from comfortable to notable with his invention of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. Last year, when a first edition of  _ The Sacred Thirty-Two _ , now known as  _ The Sacred Twenty-Eight _ was uncovered in a muggle charity shop, waves of interest came off of it because the name Potter was originally included. James Potter may be famous for flying. But he never needed to touch a broom to have his name be known. 

But James is not the sort of person to be happy with fame. He fights with his public image so much that he has been branded difficult to work with. Whenever you imagine James Potter the first thing you think of is his hair, messy and slightly too long and looking like he just rolled out of bed. What better way to distance yourself from a hair care fortune than to look like a flying “Before” poster? 

He’s just as intentional, if more direct, with his refutation to other rumors around his family. He eagerly tells me that the Gryffindor connection is “complete bollocks” as we’re taking our brisk, proper walk through Saint Regent’s park and he thinks an insecure ancestor started the rumor to add grandeur to the family name. After all, what sort of surname is Potter? It’s a muggle name for someone who makes pottery. He’s interested in the new science of DNA (which he adorably calls DMA) that muggles are studying. He thinks that one day we might have tests that will be able to prove that there’s no such thing as pure blood. Moons has been telling him all about it. Have I heard about it? It’s fascinating. 

Last year when  _ The Sacred Thirty-Two _ was released James was interviewed after one of his matches about the Potter family being included. The interview was broadcast on WBC, and the recording remains in the archive. In it, James is exuberant after a difficult match where he scored two hundred points to beat Puddlemere United. Until he’s asked about  _ The Sacred Thirty-Two _ . His voice suddenly chills.

“If my family is included in that rubbish,” he says, and his voice warm, buoyant voice becomes suddenly much sharper, much posher, “then I consider it to be the greatest shame in my family name.” The interviewer apologizes for that question, but James is not finished. “I don’t much fancy being an inbred power-hungry sycophant worshiping an unstable, genocidal fascist. Why should I be proud that a madman suddenly finds me more appealing?”

“That’s the problem with our society,” James finished. “We’d rather be proud of some lie about blood than confront that the whole fucking system is rotten.”

The backlash was swift. James was fined a thousand galleons for using foul language on WBC, the largest fine in the network’s history.  Comet dropped a sponsorship deal he had with them. Some fans burned their  _ Potter _ jersey in the middle of Diagon. And Lucius Malfoy wrote  _ that _ op-ed in the  _ Daily Prophet _ , accusing James of having no proper wizarding pride. He finished his op-ed with that now famous line. “If Potter is wise, he would stop spitting on those who support him and would instead shut up and fly.”

Which James did not do.

*

_ “That was the moment that a switch flipped for me,” Lily confessed. “I remembered you from Hogwarts.” _

_ “I remembered you too,” James said. “Head Girl Evans. Intimidatingly smart, intimidatingly pretty. I was smitten.” _

_ “You were the bane of my existence that year,” Lily said, her voice prim. She was trying not to think about the fact that James had just confessed he had a crush on her in school. “Setting traps everywhere, playing pranks, getting caught by the whomping willow of all places-” _

_ James shrugged. “I had to catch your attention somehow.” _

_ “For a long time that was how I remembered you,” Lily continued, ignoring James’ most recent comment. “Just as this troublemaker who became a Quidditch player. And then you gave that interview and I realized you had this hidden depth.” _

_ James looked pleased and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Well, at least something good came out of that interview.” _

*

James’ kitchen is comfortable and warm. He’s making shepherd's pie with a great deal of enthusiasm but without much skill. I take over the chopping of vegetables while he begins to cook the lamb on the stove.

I ask him about how it feels to be a pariah on polite society. He gives a weary chuckle.

“I could ask you the same thing,” and he fixes me with a stare. His eyes are a beautiful hazel color, and they look gold in the firelight. They are rimmed by his famous wire glasses that he confirmed are inspired by John Lennon. He loves Lennon. He loves Yoko Ono too. He thinks she’s brilliant. In fact, all the Beatles are brilliant.  _ Abbey Road _ is playing in the background. I don’t mention that “Come Together” is one of my favorite songs. He seems to already know. 

It feels a bit like we’re the only two people in the world at this moment. He’s good at that, at paying close attention to you. It makes it hard to do my job. I step back and clear my throat. 

“Journalists are not pariahs,” I say, and he laughs. It’s a real laugh, deep and rich, and he steps back to the lamb, adding the onions I just finished slicing.

“A lot of people are making the story about my sacrifices. I’ve sacrificed nothing. I still have a job. I still have fans. So some morons boo me at games. They always have. Now they’re just doing it for a different reason. I have so much protection because of my name. Because I’m a pureblood. I’m not afraid of being killed or having my family rounded up like cattle. But that’s not true for everyone.”

Quidditch’s resident heartthrob is looking at me with full intensity. He’s uncharacteristically careful as he chooses his words- not as a celebrity trying to avoid a scandal, but like a man who feels so intensely that he needs to make sure he’s properly understood. 

“How can I be quiet when there are people I love who fear for their lives every day? Why should I shut up and fly when Marlene has death threats levied against her every day for daring to say that muggle-borns deserve full rights? When Riddle’s delusions are being treated as an interesting idea and not cancer? What kind of person would I be if I was quiet about that?”

James was very careful when we spoke on the record to not put me a bind. He told me later that he did not want to discuss it because he was not sure how safe I felt. It was a deeply considerate thing to do, and we ended up talking for hours after about privilege, about bloodism and blood supremacy, and about how things could go, and how things could be different.

What he was talking around was this- I am a muggle-born. It’s not a secret. I’m not ashamed of my heritage. But like many muggle-borns in this climate, it’s easier not to mention blood status. It’s easier to let people believe that you have some magic relations, and then reassure yourself that you are not lying. It’s easier than dealing with the surprise, the “but you’re so good at magic”, the patronizing tone. It happens so often that you become numb to it. 

James is not numb. James is smart and charming and handsome, and he feels so much. Since the incident he’s gotten more political, not less. He campaigns for Marlene McKinnon. He’s talking with experts about how to best integrate muggle-born children into the magical world so that they feel welcomed without having to sacrifice their own culture. He’s written the foreword to Kennilworthy Whisp’s new book  _ Chasing Purity: A History of Bloodism in Quidditch. _

Some people have floated the rumor that James is gearing up for a run for Prime Minister. When I bring up this possibility he laughs like he’s just heard a good joke. It’s absurd for him to think of this storm as the beginning of some political career. He’s just doing his civic duty as a magical citizen.

James comes across much more interested in people than politics. The political involvement, he eagerly explains, is necessary because of the people he loves. You get the feeling he’d much prefer to live in a world activism was unnecessary. He’d much rather talk about things he loves. Like Quidditch. Or like music. He loves muggle music. As we finish preparing the shepherd’s pie for the oven he describes a concert he recently attended. 

“Sirius got us tickets as a birthday surprise. And so I finally got to see Led Zeppelin. Jimmy Page’s playing in Black Dog- there’s nothing like it.”

I was at that concert as well and I mentioned it to him. He shook his head. 

“Then you know. It’s magical.”

*

_ “What song’s your favorite?” James asked, and Lily has to think for a moment, because she’s so caught up she’s not sure she has a favorite anymore. _

_ “When The Levee Breaks,” she finally says. James begins using his hands to drum on the kitchen counter, not quite getting the opening rhythm right.  _

_ “That one’s brilliant,” he said, and he begins singing it. “If it keeps on raining, levee’s gonna break” _

_ He’s out of tune, so very out of tune, but he’s doing it with gusto, matching Robert Plant’s half weary, half sexy, all drama delivery. Lily begins to giggle, and James flashes her a smile, going even more over the top. He’s reaching a piercing conclusion about going to “Chiiiiii-caaaahgoooo” when Lily starts to double over, and James starts laughing too, so hard that he can’t continue. _

*

That’s the appeal of James Potter. He uses the word magical to describe a muggle rock concert and offers to make you dinner. His exploits are legendary, but he’s been a perfect gentleman. He’s a little bit of a bad boy- no one who has his crooked smile could be perfectly well-behaved- but he’d certainly send your mum flowers after getting you home too late. 

He’s been linked romantically with Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies and Pilar Zavala Ramiréz, the ferociously charismatic singer of the punk band The Mudbloods. But when I ask him about his dating life he laughs.

“I’m single,” he says. “Very single,” and it seems like a promise. 

I push back. He’s been photographed with attractive women constantly. Is he really going to insist that he doesn’t date?

James shakes his head. He’s been photographed with Jones (Jonesy, as he calls her) and Zavala Ramiréz (Peel) because they’re friends. They’re phenomenal women, really. But he’s not interested in dating either of them, and they’re not interested in him. 

“It’s not that I want to play the field,” he says, and he’s earnest now. “That was fun for the first year or so of being a celebrity. Not that I was promiscuous, mind you, but it was a rush to have so many beautiful women interested in me. But ultimately the interactions become shallow, and that’s not what I want.”

He’s looking, he says over and over, for that soul connection. The sort his mum and dad have, the sort that his mates have found. The sort that’s hard to find in relationships about status, whether they are arranged marriages or dating for the fame. Jonesy and Peel understand this too. It’s hard to comprehend without being in the center of it. The three of them- Jonesy and Peel and Prongs, the nickname he’s been given by his entourage- serve as a support group, not the rotating love triangle the media portrays. 

But what would a soul connection even look like, I ask, protesting as only a Muggle-born who rebels against stories of love at first sight can. 

James’s beautiful eyes catch mine and I’m caught breathless for a moment. 

“I suppose I’ll just know it when I see it,” he says, his voice hot. The moment stretches, into and out of awkward. And then there’s a clatter in the living room and a shout. 

“Pads and Moons are here,” James says, and ruffles his own hair awkwardly. It’s time for me to meet the best friend. 

*

_ “We’re having this conversation off the record,” Sirius says. He’s even more handsome than James is, but it a dark, brooding way. If James is the sun, Sirius is the moon.  _

_ “Pads,” James says, but Sirius holds up his hand.  _

_ “No, Prongs. Someone has to protect you, even if you won’t protect yourself.” _

_ Lily held up her recorder and made a show of switching it off. “What is it that you want to discuss?” _

_ “I need your assurance that you won’t hurt James.” _

_ “I do not intend to hurt anyone, but I cannot assure you of anything.” _

_ “See, Prongs, that’s why we can’t just let anyone in.” _

_ “You’re overreacting Sirius,” Remus says, and he’s the quiet, steady center to Sirius. Sirius rounds on him. _

_ “Just because you two were study buddies at Hogwarts does not mean you can trust anyone, Moony.” _

_ “Actually, I was his charms tutor,” Lily says, and she’s matching Remus’ calm tone. “What exactly are you afraid of me saying?” _

_ Lily does not miss the way that Sirius’ eyes flicker towards Remus’, or the blush that rises. She has a very good idea of what they are hiding, based on Severus’ schoolyard ramblings and those strange nicknames they have given each other. But there is no way to substantiate those claims, and even if there was, she would never out someone as a werewolf. And her offering reassurances would only make Sirius more worried. _

_ But Sirius seems more worried about Remus than anyone else, including Remus himself, and Lily’s mind is firing, making connections. James said Remus has been living here for months, and yet the spare bedroom is a mess, very unlike the Remus Lily knew. Sirius and Remus are standing so close they could almost touch, and Lily cannot remember either of them being photographed with a woman in years. And then the tattoo of a constellation on Sirius’ forearm is not Canis Major, like Lily initially assumed. It’s Lupus. _

_ It’s none of her business, absolutely none of her business, but if she promises to keep this secret he might be more likely to trust her.  _

_ “I want to assure you,” Lily said, looking first at Sirius and then at Remus, “that I have no intention of including information not relevant to James in this article. That includes relationships. James is my focus.” _

_ Sirius froze for a moment, then seemed to recollect his bearings. “I don’t know what you mean.” Remus was pale. Lily pointed to Sirius’ tattoo. _

_ “I believe love is love,” she said after several long moments had passed. “And I promise you don’t have to worry about me sharing your secrets.” _

* ****  
  


The first thing that Sirius Black does when he enters is to shake my hand. It’s manners, but it’s also a power play. His grip is firm and he looks me in the eye, studying. It’s more than just a polite greeting. He’s trying to assess if I will hurt his best friend.

James and Sirius are close. Very close. They’ve been friends since meeting on the Hogwarts Express at 11. Sirius says it was cemented when James fulfilled his families expectations and was sorted into Gryffindor and Sirius shattered his family’s hopes by doing the same. They were famous in school for their exploits- I was two years ahead of them myself, and I still knew their names. When Sirius was sixteen he ran away from his family, and he immediately moved in with the Potters. He and James have lived together ever since. They are as protective of each other as brothers. And like any protector, Sirius does not approve of an interloper.

“It’s nothing personal,” he assures me, after complimenting me on the shepherd's pie. Apparently, James is rubbish at cooking and Sirius could tell immediately that he had help. Sirius usually cooks. He’s brilliant at it. Sirius says so, but so does James. Sirius wants to know did I add some thyme in with the onions? I did. “We’ve just not had a great track record with journalists here at Prongs HQ.”

I demure the chance to defend my profession. Sirius isn’t mad about journalists, really. It’s the public backlash that makes him angry. 

We’re joined halfway through dinner with more friends. First comes Peter, who help finish of the shepherd’s pie, and then Gwenog Jones pops through the floo. James introduces me, and she’s friendly to a friend of James'. More friends come, some famous and some not, until we’re having an impromptu game night, complete with the muggle game Twister. When I win, James offers me a shot of firewhisky. This continues through the night- play a game, take a drink, until people are disappearing in the floo and Sirius and I are loudly discussing the inadequacies of magical education. James is laughing, egging us on. It’s almost three in the morning by the time that I look at the clock and realize that everyone else has left. 

I should go home, but James insists I stay. I’m a bit too drunk to floo, and so he transforms his couch to a bed (didn’t I know he was very good at transfiguration at Hogwarts? McGonagall says he was a natural) and makes sure I have a towel, toothbrush, and bowl for sick if I need it. It feels like we could talk forever, he and I, but it’s late and he has to fly early tomorrow. It’s a harder goodnight than it should be, and he lingers longer than a host who wants to make sure his guest is comfortable. When he does leave, his door closes softly, so the noise doesn’t disturb me. 

*

_ “How’d you sleep?” Lily asked James as she stumbled into the kitchen. It was too early to be up, but there he was, handsome as anything and making coffee. He flashed a brilliant smile at her. _

_ “Terrible. You?”  _

_ Lily yawned. She had a pounding headache and a crink in her neck. James passed her a steaming cup of coffee and a pitcher for milk. _

_ “Better than I usually do,” she said, as she added just enough milk for her coffee to turn caramel in color. “That bed was incredibly comfortable.” _

_ James shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “I do aim to please.” _

*

 

Journalism is in the service of truth. Good journalism is always searching for what is true in situations. It’s tedious, difficult work. It is not uncommon for journalists to carry a story with them for years, painstakingly patching a story together source by source. Because of this we journalists are suspicious people. We distrust the earnest, the simple answers. There is always something more, something hidden.

James Potter is earnest. He’s not innocent or naive, but he sees the world in clear stripes of right and wrong. The Lycanthropy Laws being debated in Wizegmont right now? Wrong, absolutely wrong. The rise of fascism and anti-muggle sentiment across Europe? Terrifyingly wrong. Quidditch? Right, even (he grudgingly admits) Puddlemere United. It’s not that James is not smart enough to understand the issues- he has a remarkable grasp of complexity, and knew more about the policy and implications of the Lycanthropy Laws than any layperson I’ve spoken to about them. It’s that he sees the world with such moral clarity that he refuses to use the polite euphemisms. He calls things as he sees them.

It took a week of probing before I trusted my gut- James Potter is genuine. He’s as funny, smart, and generous as he seems, with a Gryffindor’s reckless streak and the confidence of a man who has never doubted his place in the world. The controversy he’s caused so far seems small in comparison to what he is capable of. 

All that is to say- the world better look out. James Potter is a force to be reckoned with, and he’s coming for all of us.

*

 

_ Lily was always nervous when a piece went to print, but this was the most nervous she had been. James was controversial, and this piece was the first time she had publicly identified herself as muggle-born. There would be owls. There would be threats. She’d prefer not to find all these things out at once. Instead she went into muggle London, wandering through stores, choosing a new record and debating getting a gift for her new nephew, the one her sister had “forgotten” to tell her about. When she had run out of ways to waste time she girded herself and apparated home.  _

_ There were indeed owls. The angry letters seemed divided into two- angry about blood-purity, that  _ Mojo _ would dare hire a mudblood to interview a blood traitor. And angry that she, Lily Evans, got to meet James Potter when it should have been whatever half-literate person who wrote the letters. There were more letters of admiration, letters saying that they had a new respect for James, letters from friends congratulating her on the piece, filled with mock envy.  _

_ After she had sorted through all the letters, containing the ones that looked dangerous, saving the kindest ones, and banishing the rest, another owl swept through. This one carried a bouquet of carnations. The envelope was addressed to “Lils”, and Lily opened it with trembling hands. _

_ Lils, _

_ What a fantastic piece. You’ve a real knack for writing- I even had more respect for myself after reading the article. I’m so lucky that of all the talent  _ Mojo _ has they chose to use you. _

_ I do have ulterior motives in offering my congratulations. Go out with me. That is, if your journalistic ethics will allow you to. I reckon since I’m no longer your subject it’s fine. If it’s not, I understand. If you’re not interested, you’re welcome to let me down easy and tell me your journalistic ethics won’t let you go on a date with me. _

_ But if yes, how’s tomorrow? There’s a new band playing in Dublin that I think you’d love. We could catch the show after a bite. _

_ Love, _

_ Jamesy _

_ (P.S. I thought about sending lilies, but they seemed cliche.) _

 

_ Lily fingered the carnations and fought a smile. “Please wait,” she asked the owl, and found a quill and parchment in the living room.  _

 

_ Jamesy, _

_ Dublin, you say? I’ll meet you there tomorrow at 7. _

_ Lils _

 

_ She scribbled off the note and gave it to the owl. The owl hooted and then took off, soaring over the flats of Diagon Alley. She watched as the owl flew off into the sunset to find James, carrying with it all her fears and all her hopes. _


End file.
